


On the Edge

by Ephermeralk



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Blood Loss, Gunshot Wounds, Handcuffs, M/M, Masturbation, Non-Consensual, Non-Consensual Drug Use, robo!sam
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-20
Updated: 2014-01-20
Packaged: 2018-01-09 08:41:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,647
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1143893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ephermeralk/pseuds/Ephermeralk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Robo!Sam gets shot on a hunt, Dean’s got to take care of him, no matter how much he doesn’t want to touch his soulless brother’s body. Robo!Sam’s had enough of Dean treating him like he’s not Dean’s brother.</p>
            </blockquote>





	On the Edge

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Written for the [](http://ohsam.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://ohsam.livejournal.com/)**ohsam** hurt/comfort fic challenge. Based off the prompt: RoboSam is seriously injured. It's up to Dean to help him keep it together. This goes well for no one.

“Sammy!” he hears his brother yell from where Dean lays gasping for air against the alley, his blood adding to the mix of bodily fluids that have previously painted the brick wall over the years.

Sam knows that whatever it is, it must be serious. Dean’s called him a multitude of names since they found out that he returned from Hell one soul short of being Dean’s brother, but ‘Sammy’ hasn’t once fallen from his mouth. He turns around to look at Dean, wishing that they were, in fact, telepathic, as dad had suggested on multiple occasions. Back when dad was alive, of course. Dean and him, they could use some John Winchester-style back-up, right about now.

Sam remembers in a flash how he he had found his dad sprawled out on the floor, of how long it had taken for his coffee to drop from his hand and splash scorching hot liquid onto the white tile floor. Soul or not, Sam can understand why Dad made the deal. Dean looks stunning, even with the air taken out of his lungs, and a gash in his forehead.

Sam knows that he used to love Dean with his whole being. Now he just craves the physical closeness and comfort that Dean used to provide to him. Dean doesn’t want to touch him anymore, and Sam hasn’t pushed the matter yet. He’s been drowning himself in easy women, which of course, pisses Dean off even more. Much to Sam’s amusement.

“Sam… ” Dean tries once again, “Sammy! Bastard’s got a gu—”

The sound of a shell firing interrupts Dean’s words, and the single shot echoes through the alley, into the night. The perfume of gunpowder tickles the inside of Sam’s nose, and his pupils dilate for a moment as body relaxes into the familiar smell before he’s knocked to the ground, bullet piercing through his ribs. _Fucking Djinn had a gun._ Sam’s current lack of a soul might make him a better hunter, but it doesn’t allow him to move fast enough to avoid a bullet.

It’s just another after-dark shooting in Cleveland; there’s little chance that the police will get a call. And even if they do arrive, Sam has no plans of being anywhere near here by then.

It takes a moment for the pain to kick in. Sam wonders if his lack of soul might impact his ability to feel pain, until he pulls up various memories of being thrown to the ground, or having a hand wrapped against his throat, cutting off his air, since he’s returned. He doesn’t have the emotional connection to pain anymore, and that definitely dulls his sensation, along with his aversion to getting hurt. But it’s not enough to completely numb his insides from a bullet wound. Sam’s mind cycles through the possibilities before remembering shock. He’s experiencing shock. That explanation makes sense, and despite Dean’s constant protests against the evidence, Sam’s extremely rationale these days.

He reaches down to touch the hole near the bottom of his ribcage. His fingers are soaked with blood when he brings them back up from testing out severity of the shot. Sam’s feeling a little lightheaded, but he’s still got the sense to bundle a section of his button-down that didn’t get blown to shreds into a ball and press it against his wound. And that’s when he feels the pain.

It’s sharp, stabbing, and completely overwhelming. All of his baser needs, and higher thought processes have gone out the window, and Sam’s whole existence is reduced to all-encompassing pain. The last time Sam took a point-blank shot to his chest, he had died almost immediately. Dying quickly is infinitely preferable to bleeding out in an alley, Sam decides.

The pain originates from the spot where Sam was shot, and radiates throughout his entire upper body. Neurons everywhere from Sam’s lungs and heart up through his throat, and down to Sam’s fingertips are screaming in agony, begging to be shut off, or at least turned down. Sam doesn’t remember hell, but if he did, he imagines that this experience would fit right in; worse than a flogging, but not as bad as having his skin torn from his body and his soul dissected like a sixth-grade science experiment.

“Dean… ?” he trails off before his eyes find Dean. He looks up just in time to see his older brother pulling a silver knife soaked in lamb’s blood out of the Djinn, as it drops to the ground, dying quicker than Sam is. The other Djinn’s running down alley, and soon, he disappears into the moonless night.

Dean bends down to examine Sam.

“Go after it, Dean. I’ll wait,” Sam says. No matter how much he wants Dean to take away his pain, they’re hunters first. And there’s still a known Djinn on the loose. Dean could still catch up to it, gank it for its attempt on Sam’s life.

“No Sam. It’s gone now, and you’re more important.” He pets Sam’s hair in slow movements. “I need you to move forward just a little bit, I gotta see if there’s an exit wound.”

Sam cautiously leans forward, and pain spikes through his ribs.

Dean lets out a sigh. “Okay, the bullet’s still in you, and you know what Dad always said. If it’s in, keep it there. And you know what that means--no hospitals for you, and no hospital bills for one lucky Mr. Johnson.”

Sam nods in response. He’ll be a bit more noticeable when going through airports with a piece of metal inside of him, but it’s definitely worth not letting Dean play ‘operation’ in his thoracic cavity. Sam had always won that game when they were kids, and he’s certain that he’d win right now if Dean pulled the board out, regardless of his blood loss.

“Alright. We gotta get you back to our room, and then I’ll pull out the emergency kit and get you all cleaned up. Sound like a plan, Sam?”

“Yeah,” Sam huffs out. He’s still breathing a bit more rapidly than usual. He tries to lean forward and stand up, but Dean stops him immediately.

“Oh no you don’t, Sam. You’re staying in that position for a few weeks until your body creates some nice scar tissue, holding the bullet in the right place. Don’t want it getting loose and penetrating something vital.”

Sam glares at Dean, but he’s feeling too dizzy to protest completely, and he allows Dean to pick him up, one arm under his thighs, the other under his back. He’s actually surprised when Dean not only manages to lift him, but also carries him all the way to the Impala, and gently places him in the passenger seat.

Dean strips his outer jacket off and holds it out to Sam. “Try not to bleed too much in her?” he pleads. “Otherwize you totally owe me a detailing job when you’re better.” That makes Sam smile weakly, at least his brother’s acting a little more like himself.

They stop at a convenience store briefly so that Dean can pick up some gatorade, and stock up on antiseptic and gauze pads. He cuffs Sam inside of the car.

“Where exactly do you think I’m going, Dean?”

“Dunno, don’t care. I just want to make sure you’re there when I get back.”

Sam waves him off; he knows as well as Dean that cuffs wouldn’t hold him anywhere, if he decided he wanted to leave.

By the time they make it to their motel, Sam’s feeling a bit better already. The two bottles of brightly colored sugar-and-electrolyte water that Dean forced on him upon his return, have helped him replenish some of the fluid that he originally lost back in the alley. Despite his protests, Dean insists on carrying him into their room. They receive odd looks from a group of people who are standing in the parking lot smoking. Dean flashes a bright smile in their direction.

“Can’t take his liqour, this one.” Dean low whistles to emphasize his point. “He’s as heavy as an elephant, too.”

Once Dean’s satisfied that they’ve lost enough interest, he jimmies the door open.

“Seriously though, Sam. You gotta lay off the exercise and the protein shakes for awhile, you weigh a ton.”

“And maybe you should try working out a little more, Dean. You’re starting to get a little… soft.”

Dean doesn’t respond to him, he just deposits Sam on the bed, and cuffs his left wrist to the headboard.

“Really, Dean?”

“Despite what you keep sayin’, you’re not my brother. So yeah, really.”

Sam huffs and looks away. “You planning on playing nurse any time soon here, Dean? Or are you just going to let me bleed out on the bed?”

Dean roots around in the bag, and when he’s turns around, he’s pulled out a small syringe with a needle attached.“Here we go, this should calm you down a bit while I get the antiseptic ready.”

Sam squirms in the bed. “No, Dean. No drugs.”

“You’re gonna need it Sam. Don’t want you moving around while I’m working, and it’s gonna be painful.”

“I can take it, Dean. I don’t want the drugs.”

“Fine.” Dean glares, but throws the syringe into the trash. “Whiskey, then?”

“Yeah, okay,” Sam agrees. He drinks about a fifth of the bottle that Dean hands to him, and tries not to wince as Dean cleans and bandages his wound. And then watches as Dean hits the bottle. Hard.

He lets Sam up to go to the bathroom, and then locks him back to the bed.

“You know, if you don’t want me to leave the bed, all you have to do is say it, Dean,” Sam says.

Dean shakes his head. “I almost lost you once tonight, Sam. Can’t risk it again.”

After drinking his way through the rest of the bottle, Dean’s curled up against Sam’s non-injured side. Sam likes the way that Dean’s body feels against his, like it was made to make Sam revel in how small Dean looks compared to him. Sam puts a hand on Dean’s thigh, and it easily spans the distance, his fingers wrapping close to the inseam of Dean’s jeans. For the first time since they started hunting together again, Dean doesn’t pull away.

“I miss you, Sam. I miss _us_ ” Dean says. He’s drunker than Sam’s seen in months. He wants to reach over and remember how Dean’s hair, and face, and body feel underneath his hands, but he’s still cuffed to the bed.

“Let me go, Dean. Then you won’t have to miss me. I can still give you what you need.”

It’s clearly the wrong thing to say, because Dean laughs hollowly and removes himself from Sam’s side. “Just so we’re clear here, you can _never_ give me what I want, because you’re not really Sam. Not all of him, anyways.”

Dean walks over to the other bed, and lays down on top of the comforter, clothes still on.

“You’re wrong, Dean. I’m Sam, and the sooner you remember that, the easier it will be for both of us.”

His brother turns on his side, until Dean’s no longer facing him. Soon Sam hears the soft snoring from the other side of the room. And then he works on getting out of the handcuffs. It doesn’t take him long, only about twenty minutes. He grabs his duffle, and almost leaves because he’s tired of taking Dean’s constant verbal abuse, until he gets a better idea.

Sam sets down his bag gently, and roots through the garbage until he finds the syringe that Dean threw in earlier. He pours antiseptic over the needle, and pads over to Dean’s sleeping form.

Dean startles a bit, as Sam slides the needle into a prominent vein on his brother’s arm.

“Sammy…?” Dean slurs his name.

“Shhh… just go back to sleep Dean. Everything will be fine when you wake up.”

Sam pushes the drug slowly into Dean, watching to make sure he keeps breathing. Once he’s certain that Dean’s stable, but not going to awaken, Sam takes the handcuffs and attaches both of Dean’s wrists to the headboard. He then unbuttons Dean’s jeans and slides them his brother’s bowed thighs. Sam hooks his thumbs into Dean’s briefs and pulls the elastic down until it’s right beneath Dean’s balls. The way that Dean’s soft cock and ball sack is on display for him, nearly takes Sam’s breath away. He’s missed this. Sam thinks briefly about playing with Dean’s dick, making Dean want him, before deciding that with most of a bottle of whiskey, and the drugs that Sam just put into his system, there’s a very small chance that ‘little Dean’ will come out to play.

Sam straddles his brother’s legs, and takes his own cock out of his pants. Spitting into hand, Sam starts to strip his dick, with slow, loose strokes as first. Dean’s body jostles slightly with every movement of Sam’s body, and Sam can’t help but move up Dean, until his balls rub against Dean’s. Underneath him, Dean gives out a moan, and Sam stops for a moment, letting his brother’s body relax, before he starts up again.

This time, Sam works his cock faster, playing with the sensitive head of his dick, rubbing right underneath the head. He focuses on Dean’s mouth, which is half open, with just the slightly hint of drool coming out at the seam of his red lips. Sam thinks of all the time’s he’s pushed inside Dean’s mouth, forcing his brother to take everything that Sam gave him. The memory of being sheathed in Dean’s warm mouth is enough to push Sam over the edge, and he barely has enough time to pull back and point his dick so that his semen lands all over his brother’s soft cock, and pale, freckled upper thighs.

Sam climbs off his brother, and zips himself back into his jeans. He can’t refuse dipping a finger into a strand of his come. He paints the sticky fluid onto Dean’s lips, touching light enough that Dean doesn’t even twitch.

“You’re perfect like this,” Sam whispers into Dean’s ear. He hopes that his words makes it through the layers of drugs that are currently rendering his brother unconscious.

He reaches into his back pocket, and pulls out a wad of bills. Sam throws a few twenties onto Dean’s skin, and watches as they seep up the come that hasn’t already dried.

“That should pay for the detail job,” he says, with a smirk. He almost wishes he would be here tomorrow, when Dean awoke. It’ll take his brother a few hours to dig a splinter out of the headboard, and get out of the handcuffs, but it’s nothing that he hasn’t done before. Sam has faith in his brother.

Still, there’s a djinn that needs killing. No one puts a bullet in Sam Winchester, without dramatically decreasing their own life expectancy. And he’s certainly not spending the next few weeks locked to a bed, as his brother had suggested.

Sam winces as he throws his duffle roughly over his shoulder. He should be able to catch the djinn by midday tomorrow with a little luck, and his strong drive to deal out swift death. Sam takes one last look at Dean, and wishes he had a camera. Dean looks gorgeous, sprawled out on top of the bed, covered in Sam’s come and money.

When he leaves, Sam makes sure to line the outside of the door with salt. Dean will catch up to Sam soon, he always does. And this time, Sam’s got big plans for Dean. Ones that hopefully involve a little more audience participation, next time. Sam smiles as he hot wires an old car, and drives off into the city, completely relaxed, and ready to kill.


End file.
